Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace

by H. Jane Harrington

  Inagor tied the Arrelius dagger into Kir's grip with a handkerchief, but it went spiraling through the air with the first good block. For all Kir's fervent itching to test it out, she decided in the heat of spar that it was better to focus on her strength than on her weakness. She put all her efforts into one-handed combat after that. The more she fussed with the left hand, the more obvious it would be to Inagor that it was a hindrance. There would be time later to adjust and adapt.

  Inagor's swift swordplay kept Kir on her toes. Despite her limitation, he did not coddle her or go easy like some of the other warriors did when they sparred with her (which was likely due to her title, her gender, her youth or whatever else they thought diminished her ability). Inagor's respect oozed from his very pores in the effort. The ecstasy of the spar was as much ingrained in his temperament as it was in Kir's. He was enjoying every moment. Inagor was the greatest warrior Kir had ever faced; she had to pull out a few of her tricks just to have a chance of keeping up with him.

  One of her newer moves needed practicing, so when the opening presented, she somersaulted forward and kicked up and outward to counter Inagor's downstrike, while bringing her sparring sword in an arc toward the back of his knees. The move threw him off balance when his knees buckled. Kir took the killing point with a thrust to his ribs, then rolled to her feet triumphantly. She offered a hand to the prone, stunned Guardian.

  Inagor laughed despite his loss and accepted the aid to his feet. “You've learned a thing or two from Guardian Draback. That was one of his moves.”

  Kir flushed as she brushed the dirt from the back of Inagor's tunic. She sometimes forgot that Inagor had shared the Brace with Draback, Sterrick and Grent years ago. “Yeah. He still favors it. Soventine's Guardians liked to gang up on me in our training sessions. I had to learn their methods in a hurry. Didn't fancy getting pounded on a regular basis.” It sounded more bitter than she intended.

  “That's a sign that they respected you,” Inagor commented. “They wouldn't have bothered if they thought you weren't worthy of their attention.”

  “Felt more like bullying than respecting,” Kir noted with an indignant huff. “At least they came at me with their swords singing. That's more than I can say for Malacar lately. He thinks I'm incompetent, not fit to wield a point sharper than my tongue.”

  “Malacar? I can tell you for a fact that's not true,” Inagor countered.

  “Doesn't he? The overbearing martinet has come blazing out of him lately. If he had his way, I wouldn't be allowed within ten feet of a blade. Hard to get over confidence issues when you're treated like a delicate flower.” Kir felt like a child, whining to a parent about a sibling spat. Her complaint was really more about Malacar's insecurities than hers. She hoped Inagor could help Malacar where she couldn't. He was the one person Malacar would listen to, especially in regards to Kir-issues.

  Inagor seemed more concerned with bolstering Kir's confidence than addressing Malacar's. “Well whatever self-doubt has been sparked, I can snuff it. You are a formidable opponent, Kiriana. Such that I have to bring my full game to the table when I face you. You took me down just now, one-handed.”

  “One victory out of every ten spars doesn't sound like a very good match,” Kir muttered.

  Inagor laughed. “Maybe one in a thousand warriors could boast a ten percent success rate against me. I've trained my entire life in the warrior class, while you are only twenty years old and have held title to Master Warrior status for less than two years. Victory over a Guardian with my experience and skill level is a rare feat, even for seasoned veterans. Many young Guardians would have been lounging, basking in the luxury of Brace life, but you have been working hard and leveling up. Give yourself credit where it's due.”

  Kir let Inagor continue his assessment without diversion. Maybe it was selfish to seek approval, but Kir had been more hungry for validation than she had realized and here was Inagor, dishing it out on a silver platter. To coax his candid praise, she said meekly, “Truly? For a while, back when I first started seeing you, I was beginning to question my own qualifications as a warrior. It was a mighty doubt that your vorsnarm watered.”

  “If you doubt the sincerity of my effort here, think back to our battle when I was under Soreina's influence. I was not holding back, and you bested me then. Your Master Kozias may not have told you this, but you are an Offensives prodigy. Malacar's reticence and overprotectiveness have nothing to do with your competence. He is fighting internal battles that are stretching him too many ways. Your skills stand on their own. Malacar knows that—we've talked about it before.”

  Deep down, Kir had believed she was a talented fighter, but there was an incredulous little part of her that needed to hear it confirmed by a colleague she respected. Kozias had never once offered a hint of praise, Inagor was right about that. There was a part of Kir that had always longed for the affirmation that Kozias had never granted. It didn't matter anymore. She could put doubts aside. Inagor thought her a worthy opponent. It was all the validation she needed.

  “By the way,” Inagor added, “there was a strike you landed when we were engaged at the Manor. You twirled like a twister then launched a wind attack that threw me against the wall. What in Blazers was that? I've never seen the like.”

  Kir cackled proudly. “My new signature move, the Saiya Mishina. Cuts down a whole perimeter with blades of wind. I'm disappointed you only got to see a weak version. I didn't have time or energy enough to launch a good one.”

  “Disappointed? That attack damn near shredded my chest. If it were any stronger, we wouldn't be having this conversation,” Inagor coughed. “I hope to see it again, in its full strength. Just, from a very healthy distance.”

  “Don't worry. I mean to ride that whirlwind every chance I get,” Kir promised.

  Two weeks melted away under random drencher downpours and dismal skies before they reached the Southway, a small waystation that marked the last stop before the Hili border. It was only a half day's ride to Fort Ellesainia now. There were no more threats or kaiyo attacks, and the closer they got to the station, the easier the convoy seemed to breathe. Kir didn't take heart in the lull like they did. She knew the enemy's eyes were out there, and she would “rather see the wasp and swat it now than wonder when it would sting later.” It was a familiar thought that brought to recollection Kir's first approach to Hili. The mages had showed up on the doorstep that time, answering the foreboding warning that her guts had been screaming. There would be no hoard of cloakers this time. A brigade surrounded the caravan, walling off the angry world.

  General Beyhue was waiting for them at Southway. From the moment Kir clasped arms with Beyhue, she could tell he was her kind of people. He did not flinch at Kir's authority and he applauded the idea of a warrior royal in command, seeming much more impressed with action than with politicking. Ulivall had spoken very highly of the man. They seemed to have adopted a working friendship. Their own reunion was warm and engaging.

  “I'll escort Your Affianced Highness to Fort Ellesainia,” Beyhue reported. “The Hili Circle of Council awaits your arrival there. The fort will be your headquarters, for as long as you need.”

  “Are we prepared for siege?”

  “More than. Hili is the supply line.”

  “But the fort is on the border, not in Hili territory. Can she hold out against a kaiyo assault?”

  Beyhue forced a breath. “To be frank, Highness, the fort is not even finished yet. She is untested. If we fall under siege, Fort Ellesainia will face her first trial, and her might will be established. If she falters, we can retreat into the wetlands, on the blessing of the Hilians. Hili can stand indefinitely behind her superior Defensives. That said, I have no intentions of ever allowing it to come to that.”

  “Ulivall told me something of the traps you've been planting around her.”

  “The Hilians are creative when it comes to countermeasures. They were abundantly helpful in Fort Ellesainia's design.�
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  “I look forward to seeing her, General,” Kir said sincerely.

  “As we are entering into a new alliance, I'll be pleased to have you and the Hilian officers join me this evening in celebration. It's an Aquilinian tradition to smoke a cashnettar unity pipe in solidification of new bonds.”

  “Cashnettar? I thought that stuff was rare. Pricey luxury, considering we're about to be funding a war.”

  “It's highly prized by the priesthood for its Prophetic enhancements. Not being prophets ourselves, our pipes find another purpose for its use. Part of the symbolism lies in its rarity. Because it's of high value, it is cherished and not wasted, just like the treaty we enter into over the promise of the pipe,” Beyhue explained. He seemed to notice

  Kir's apprehensive look. “The cost is not reflected in the army's operating expenses. Dekshar Possenar has always been our cashnettar benefactor.”

  “It's on Possenar's loran, is it?” Kir had never given thought to matters like lorans and defense budgets before, but she was forced to think about it now. Wars did not come cheap. “I'll be honored to solidify our resolve over your unity pipe, General.”

  “Before we retire to our festivities, there's a sensitive matter I've been sitting on. You may not be aware, but Prince Vannisarian's Dimishuan Reformations were not officially delivered through legal channels. We only know of them through Ulivall and Farraday's reports. The King never sent the decree. To be legal, it would have to be served and posted. We've been enforcing it loosely, in conjunction with local law-arms. The clink pit is loaded with members of a slave trader band. I'm not sure what we can do with them. They did not know of the Reformations adoption, and we have only just begun to post the Declaration of Liberation you signed. If I release them, we'll have to round them up again when they get back at it.”

  Kir wanted to groan. Law was Vann's specialty, and she did not have Gavin Shelfern there to advise her. Ferinar had helped draft both measures, so Kir summoned him for consultation.

  “Collar them,” was Ferinar's direct, unyielding reply. “One cannot claim ignorance of the law to avoid its consequence.”

  “But if it's not posted, the law only exists in the minds of the men that conjured it,” Kir countered. “Otherwise, we could just make up laws as we go and then we'd be Tarnavarian. Let me see these slavers. We'll hold ourselves an honest jawboning session, maybe talk us a little trade.” She sent a few runners to the kitchens for supplies and directed them to meet up in the prisonary.

  Kir dismissed Ferinar to visit with Possenar, which she knew he had been aching to do, them having worked together on Soventine's Council of Advisers. Beyhue escorted Kir and Inagor to the clink, where twenty-three men waited in the pit. They were riled and spitting. Kir couldn't blame them. She despised their work, but it had been lawful at one time. They had no reason to believe anything had changed. When they saw her standing over them, they hollered insults and crude suggestions, which Kir ignored. She paced the perimeter, analyzing the captives. Kir sorted them through their eyes, their hands and their builds. After she had a good feel for them based on simple physical observation, she waved a finger for the cue. Troops dumped pouches of jerked meats and fruits into the pit. A barrel of clean water and a string of tin cups were lowered on pulleys.

  “Compliments of Her Highness, Princess Kiriana Ellesainia,” General Beyhue called down. Granting a morsel was an effective means of gaining trust in prisoners.

  It was the only meal the slavers had been granted in some time, and they attacked the cascade of food like chickens on a junebug. Their actions helped Kir organize them further: their system of hierarchy and the leaders became apparent.

  When they seemed appeased, Kir called down to the prisoners. “Being in the wilds a spell, you been out of the loopsie. Lot's been happening in the world of late. You hankerin' talk of it?”

  One gristle-jawed grumpkis stepped forward. Kir had pegged him for a leader early on. “Them green beans up yonder been talkin' tales. Don't mean squat. Mere lies and excuses to chink the clink on our good persons. So's they can take the runner-pickin's fresh for theirselves. We muck up their good boggie huntin', see?”

  “That as the case, why'd Hilians be occupying their newfangled fort 'longside greenies? Or, ain't you taken note?” Kir shot back. “No, the world's a'changing, boys. You best catch up, or you'll be left downwind.”

  “And what would you know of it?” the leader spat. “Pretty gallies sittin' up in your shinies, lookin' down on the piss pits below with us muckin' about. Go back to your stitchin' ring and tea party, bitchy-boo. Or you'll get your skirts dirty.”

  Kir snorted. The trash-talking gutter-speak of the streets didn't faze her. She had spent two years coming up in the Hatchel backwoods, learning the tongue with the worst of them. The fancy title and luminescent royal scrollwork on her uppers hadn't lessened her ability to joust tongues. The leader had a heavy west Drabackian accent, and Kir knew the vernacular well. She had toned down her own speech and thoughts, but a piece of backwoods Draback Flatte would always stick with her.

  “Can't dirty further what's already mucked,” Kir called back. “Mind if I bring the tea party to you?”

  The leader didn't seem to understand what she was about, so Kir handed over her sword and dagger for Inagor's keeping. He cocked his head but didn't stop her.

  “Anybody got a cloinker?” Kir asked the troops standing by. It was a common term for a liquor-filled anything.

  Someone jogged over with a full bottle of Hilian rice wine. It wasn't the fancy Beckett vintages that were so prized, but it would do to serve Kir's purpose. Even with her left hand splinted in Bertrand's odd contraption, she was able to grip the bottle neck in her three good fingers, with the butt cradled in her armpit. Kir unlaced the rope strap from the pulley system and stuck her boot into the loop.

  “You sure about this?” Inagor whispered in her ear.

  “I speak their language,” Kir assured him. “Don't tell Malacar. He'd pop kittens if he found out.” Kir motioned to the Private manning the mechanism, with instruction to lower her down.

  The antsy Private glanced to Beyhue for approval. The General shrugged and waved compliance. Several of the troops and Hilians leaned forward, crossbows at the ready to cover her. Kir kicked off and glided into the pit with the weight of the pulley. The men parted, forming a ring around her.

  Kir tugged the rope for dismissal, then faced Grumpkis with an extended arm. “Don't think we've been met.”

  “Don't think we would be,” he huff-gruffed.

  “One'd expect you'd be more obliging to the wench holding the cloinker,” Kir said, swirling the bottle to make the swishing liquid cloink against the glass.

  Grumpkis snorted and laughed, and the whole ring of slavers erupted like they had instant permission. The leader clasped Kir's forearm in the standard greeting.

  “Lahmpken's mine by right and birth,” he said in introduction. “Bosser of Neckienab Band by way of title. Judgin' by the looks of the duds, you gone native, kitten.” He wagged his finger up and down, indicating Kir's Hilian-styled clothes.

  “Ellesainia's mine by right and affiancement. Princess Kiriana by way of title. To be frank, sir Lahmpken, I am native. Cornian by birth, Hilian by clan and Empyrean by Karanni. But I came up with the likes of your Drabackian kinsmen, and I know what whets the whistle better than raindrops can.” Kir popped the cork and poured a good jigger-full into his cup.

  Lahmpken offered Kir his cup for the first sip, as was the age-old custom. It was a way to establish trust by ensuring the offering was not poisoned, and to establish a social connection in the sharing of common drink. When she had taken her swig, Kir splashed a mouthful in each of the tins that thrust forward, until everyone had a taste and the bottle was empty. Lahmpken downed the rest of his tin, then plopped on the packed dirt floor, cross-legged. He invited Kir to join him with a wave. When she and the men were settled, he said, “So now. What brings a Cornian-by-
way-of-the-Flatte-wenchy playing Princess in Hilian duds to our piss pit in the bogs?”

  “I come to dish out justice where it's due,” Kir said. “Law been broke. Someone gotta mend it.”

  “No law been broke here. No law on the boards or the books referencing to the boggie runners. General Fancy-pants been talking such, but there never been.”

  “Never been, but is now,” Kir reported. “Law been passed some weeks gone. If you've not been to town, that's on you.”

  “I been to town,” one of the other slavers put in. “Seen the post boards. Seen the papers. Never seen no new bogtrot law.”

  “There was a hiccup, no denying. But I'm here now, and I'm decreeing in the paper's place. This Karanni mark gives me authority, and my mouth gives you notice. The Dimishuan Reformations say the world is changing. Hili done been free territory since some months past. New liberation law since signed and on the books says there's no more collars on gold. Here on, Dimishuan necks are free as Alakuwai necks. Since the hiccup was on the part of the Crown, I'll not hold you on account for what's past.”

  “You mean to release the lot and likes of us?”

  “I do. Posthaste. Free and clear, no marks to stain your good names. But mind you this. Notice been now issued, and all Aquiline expect to be posted forthwith, if not yet done. Slaver bands are no more. You walk on in the now-while, but you best be finding more suitable occupations to feed your faces. Caught again, these fine troops won't be so kind as me now. No matter the color of the neck, they don't look so purty in shiny collars.”

  There were rounds of complaint and disapproval, more in groan than in word. Someone said, “What's 'at do for us? What trade or track would take on our likes to their rosters? I got me a name on the books already. Honest folk don't take on them's of us already got shadows of old collar time on our necks.”